Desiderium
by Mizz Moony Luver
Summary: AU Narcissa Malfoy had a secret. As secrets went, this one wasn’t the kind old hags gossiped about at a knitting circle. It was however the kind of secret which often spent most of its time avoiding maggots and signing his artwork R.A.B...An Inferius Tale
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I have been informed that Tim Burton has taken out a copyright on Tim Burton inspired weirdness, therefore I do not even own that. Alas! **

_Summary_ AU Narcissa Malfoy had a secret. As secrets went, this one wasn't the kind old hags gossiped about at a knitting circle. It was however the kind of secret which often spent most of its time avoiding maggots and signing his artwork "R.A.B"… An Inferius Tale.

**(A/N: This story came to me while I was listening to **_**The Nightmare Before Christmas**_** soundtrack. Couple that with my odd personality and imagination and you get this piece.**

**Beware this will be excessively odd, weird and morbid but nevertheless I will try and make it lighthearted after its own fashion. Eventual Hermione/Regulus, however unlike my Valentines Day fic this won't be as cheesy and it will not center around romance. Don't worry, no zombie sex here.**

**And yes, this is a fic about Inferi, and yes, I'm aware that Inferi are supposed to be mindless, but let me assure you there is reason, pseudo-science and Snape behind the madness. You'll see.) **

_Desiderium_  
**Prologue**

A whirlwind of fresh parchment went flying into the air, gently floating down as though carried by invisible hands onto the cobblestones in front of Malfoy Manor as Narcissa Malfoy put up a futile struggle. There was a crystalline shatter as an inkwell succumbed to gravity and a splatter of ink splashed the hems of Mrs. Malfoy's silk robes and drenched the paved garden path like ersatz blood.

"No need to make such a fuss now," said a burly Auror with spectacles as thick as aquarium glass, "Unless you have something to hide…"

"You have no right to invade my home," hissed Narcissa, ignoring the snide accusations and glaring at the carnage of quills, parchment and ink that lay scattered on the cobbles, casualties of an inane battle.

"Oh, but we do, show her the warrant Gladys."

A presumptuous looking witch who was almost spherical in stature took out an equally presumptuous looking document with a hasty signature "Rufus Scrimgeour" scrawled near the bottom right hand corner.

"We just want to ask you a few questions about your son, Mrs. Malfoy. No use fretting, I assure you that if you're _cooperative_ you'll be back home tomorrow evening," the bespectacled Auror continued, restraining Narcissa with a quick charm and pushing her along with short merciless jabs in the back courtesy his wand.

As she was led past the Apparition points on the property, the reality of the situation sank in. Narcissa Malfoy was going to be late.

0oo0

The grimy floor was carpeted by parchment to the point where the somber grey stone was almost completely obscured. A rickety table was home to a quill and an inkwell. A small ornate silver lantern cast a frail glow around the room, illuminating thousands of moving sketches of various bones, spiders, portraits of a blonde haired woman and startlingly realistic depictions of the room itself, all signed with a spidery signature; _'R.A.B'_.

On the other side of the room (which was coincidently only twelve paces away) a thin figure sat on a decaying wooden casket. It was so still it could have been mistaken for a wax sculpture, but it was in fact a boy. At least it _looked_ like a boy, if one wanted to get technical it was the corpse of a boy.

He had just run out of parchment. He _never_ ran out of parchment. Cissy had seen to that. Cissy had always been a constant in his life, she came the same time every week bearing a pile of parchment, ink and a new sugar quill. She talked to him too, she always asked the same question; _'Do you remember anything?' _He was never sure what exactly he was supposed to be remembering, but every time he expressed this thought Cissy would merely smile sadly, pick up one of his drawings from the floor and take her leave.

That was another thing that was bothering him, where exactly did she go? The four walls grey walls of the tomb was the only thing he had ever known outside the hazy memories he never bothered to visit. He rarely gave any thought to what lay beyond. However now he was out of parchment and there was nothing to do but think restless thoughts. And perhaps, just maybe, formulate an adventure.

**(Reviews, criticism and flames always help spur me onwards, backwards or sideways if you find that direction preferable, so don't forget to leave me a note. :D)**


	2. Dead Man’s Whims

**(A/N: SRY GUYZ. I kind of died on you there, didn't I? But lo and behold! This story has spontaneously reanimated! I also bring the promise of **_**regular updates **_**from this point onwards. And yes, I do plan on finishing this fic, even with the encroaching cloud of brand new canon hovering on the horizon.)**

_Desiderium_  
**Chapter One- Dead Man's Whims**

The room had tall, arched windows and fluttering gossamer curtains that whispered gently to the draft. Handsome ceiling to floor shelves towered over the room like turrets; they were home to thousands of books, first-editions by the look of them. In the center of the room stood a rather peculiar desk, although the term "desk" was used loosely; it looked more like an old stooped creature then anything, forever frozen in an age old enchantment. It smelt of parchment and aged oak and there was the faintest aroma of freshly used ink in the air. All in all, the room was like an exquisite piece of art; reeking of the sort of character a room can only achieve after bearing witness to dozens of generations.

The room did not, in fact, exist.

It did however dwell in the back of Hermione Granger's mind and whenever she fell into idle fantasy the room would gain some semblance of half-existence. She'd always wanted to have a library of her very own.

Now that she had one, Hermione found that it didn't quite live up to expectations.

The library of Grimmauld Place was a narrow, circular room. It had an air of strangeness and claustrophobia about it. For one reason or another, the room simply rejected noise; stepping into it made one feel as if the world had stopped turning and that everyone, everywhere was waiting completely silent and still, with abated breath, for one's return. So many layers of magic were present that in her peripheral vision Hermione could swear she could see the air shimmer and sway.

Its shelves, battered and bruised, was almost entirely devoid of books (many of which had been thrown away due to their often homicidal inclinations. Some had simply crawled away themselves.) The only light source was a high ring of grimed-over windows that gave the light a strange tint of sepia. Hermione found she had to light the tip of her wand to read the titles of the few remaining grimoires in the gloom.

There was even an iron-wrought sliding ladder, but it was solidly rusted in place and on its tarnished railings an unpleasant, pulsating purple mould had blossomed; every time anyone drew close to the fungus, it would close in on itself like some brilliant undersea coral leaving only a gray crust that was impossible to scrap off and a lucrative guarantee that it would emerge, colorful and brilliant and alive, once more.

The air buzzed with the ghosts of cockroaches as Hermione tentatively went through each book, picking it up, weighing it warily in one hand, daring something to happen before finally flipping through it with care. Most of the books, the little that there were, had passed her test, as it seemed only the benign ones had survived Sirius' purge. One of the books, however, had scolded Hermione for handling it with her "filthy Mudblood hands" in a shrill scream before promptly turning to dust. Hermione wondered with unreserved horror if the spells keeping the library quiet were stronger and more aggressive then she'd originally assumed.

Hermione packed the last of the books into her enchanted purse. She mentally commended herself on that bit of cleverness. It had seemed like an impossible conundrum at first, smuggling the Black family library out of Grimmauld before the Order officially vacated its walls. Hermione had tried to think of rational explanations for why she would require an entire library worth of dark arts books and she'd come up rather short.

Hermione sighed. She didn't like all this lying. She still felt horribly guilty over confounding her parents. But lying to the Order? The one group of wizards they could trust, that would help them at the drop of a hat? Hermione shook her head sadly.

It was time, she felt, that they include the Order in their search but Harry would hear none of it. Dumbledore's orders, as he never tired of reminding her, was to keep the Horcruxes between the three of them.

While Hermione had nothing but adoration for the late headmaster and while she was certain that that particular order had served an important, meaningful purpose at the time, the fact remained that they hadn't the foggiest idea where to even start. People were dying everyday for Merlin's sake! It was no time to dilly dally about with a dead man's whims.

0oo0

Weeping Wendy floated reverently through the forest of gothic crosses, weather-beaten seraphs and hulking grey masses of family crypts. Many of the encryptions had long since been worn away by rain and sleet. It was a typical cemetery, if you considered cemeteries being magically concealed behind a dilapidated apartment complex "typical".

It had been a decent place once, with the grass evenly trimmed and the headstones polished and gleaming. A necropolis fit for only the upper crust of Pureblood society. However those days had passed. No one wanted to inter there loved ones beside Death Eaters, or at least no one had wanted to risk the suspicion. It was Weeping Wendy's cemetery now, and she watched over it contently, even if the company she kept was lackluster at best.

Weeping Wendy was not sure where on Earth her name had originated from, as nothing satisfied her more then being a peaceful haunt. Not that there was much to be haunting these days; over the years the cemetery had found new and interesting ways of being abandoned, even the ominous fog, which used to cling to the overgrown weeds and suffocated grass, had dissipated. After all, what point was there of being melodramatic when there was no one to frighten?

However there was one young woman who had not yet abandoned the sprawling city of headstones. She came every Friday, parchment and quills in hand. She would hurry along a path she had worn through the grass herself and would disappear inside a lavish crypt with the name; _Regulus Arcturus Black _embellished on a tarnished silver plaque above the entrance. An entrance which ought to have been, according to proper wizarding tradition, permanently sealed.

Weeping Wendy looked forwards to Fridays; over time she had watched the woman grow older, yet even after seventeen years she hadn't solved the mystery. Wendy knew all it would take was to float through the crypts thick wall and see what exactly lay within. However Wendy didn't dare. The mystery thrilled her and, Merlin knew, she needed some amusement.

Little did Weeping Wendy know the mystery was about to solve itself.

The-permanently-sealed-door-that-was-not began to open with the slow, excessively sinister manner crypt doors take pride in. At first all that was visible was half a face, one frosted-over eye that could only have belonged to a corpse gazed out cautiously. A second later the waxing moon revealed an entire figure. At first glance the slender teen would not have warranted much alarm; however any wizard worth their salt would have recognized it for what it was.

However, much to Weeping Wendy's intrigue, its sightless eyes seemed to be taking in everything around it; stranger till, with deep appreciation. Inferi didn't see. They didn't think. And they _definitely_ didn't take in the scenery. They shuffled along and did as they were reanimated to do.

The corpse paused, looking troubled; a parody of thought. Suddenly it darted back into the darkness of it's crypt, there was sounds of general rummaging and it emerged once more, gripping a piece of parchment. Mechanically the cadaver folded it and stuffed it deep into the confines of its robe pocket.

The corpse noticed the presence of the ghostly old crone for the first time. It cocked its head and regarded the specter with curiosity.

"Do you happen to know where Cissy went?" it asked, quite politely.

Wendy was shocked, which was unsurprisingly a fantastical and alien emotion to someone who had spent the last fifty years haunting her own grave and the last seventeen watching nature slowly turn it, and the surrounding area, into compost. Despite her astonishment Wendy gave the Inferius a motherly smile.

"Well, there's only one exit, dear," said Wendy her tone slightly condescending, "So I think it's safe to assume she went out that way," she pointed in the direction of two large iron gates which appeared to be resting against a brick wall.

The Inferius gave her a questioning gaze while most of its brethren would have lurched across the graveyard and kept lurching on until the bricks had crumbled and gave way.

"It's enchanted," Wendy assured, "So you can walk through it without a problem."

The Inferius gave a smile and a nod of thanks and started towards the gates with a shade of uncertainty, the prospect of leaving the cemetery was both perplexing and thrilling all at once. If he was capable of such an action, Regulus would have taken a deep breath as he reached the wrought-iron gates and the brick wall that it was attached to. He walked straight through it, as if it wasn't even there and emerged into the fluorescent orange glow of the street lamps.

**(A/N: Buh. You know the routine. Concrit much encouraged.)**


End file.
